


Someone Will Remember Us, I Say, Even in Another Time

by duchessofthemoonbase



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Historical, Soulmate/Reincarnation AU, World War I, damereyexchange, diaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22488196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchessofthemoonbase/pseuds/duchessofthemoonbase
Summary: On a tiny farm in France during World War I, a woman does her best to survive on her own, writing down her thoughts in a diary.In a small town in the twenty-first century, a girl named Rey finds it tucked away in a box.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Rey
Comments: 49
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [damerey_knows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damerey_knows/gifts), [queenmidalah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmidalah/gifts).



> *Title comes from Sappho translated by Anne Carson
> 
> For the Damerey Fanfiction Exchange: Very happy birthdays to damerey_knows and Midalah, who both asked for soulmate/reincarnation AUs for their January and February birthdays! This chapter is mostly exposition, and the more blatantly shippy stuff will happen in Chapter 2, coming in February. 
> 
> Happy Birthdays to you both! Enjoy! <3 :D

“Here’s some stuff from the estate sale I cleared out this weekend,” Unkar said, directing Rey towards fifteen or so boxes stacked in the corner. “It’s mostly junk. Salvage what you can and put a price on it. The rest can go to the dump.”

“Sure,” Rey said with a sigh, sitting down to open the first box. Working at Plutt’s Antiques certainly wasn’t her dream job, but it was better than a lot of others. At least here she could usually be alone with her thoughts, and occasionally she found some interesting things to rifle through.

Rey opened the first box, which was full of awkward-looking figurines, many of them too broken to sell. She sighed and began to stack them in the dumpster pile. Sure, they were only made of glass and china, but something about the state of them made her own loneliness seem even more profound.

She spent the afternoon sorting through box after box, pulling out a few things that could make promising sells while putting most of the items in boxes to go to the dump. It was 7 p.m. and nearly the end of her shift, and she only had one box left to look through. It was the biggest and heaviest one, at the very bottom of the pile, and Rey soon discovered it was filled with books. None of them very good—mostly grimy-looking copies of every bestselling self-help book from the past fifty years. She had nearly sorted through them all when her hand brushed across one last volume…

She could have sworn she felt a spark of warmth shoot through her veins.

Rey picked up the book with careful hands and ran her fingers over the blank cover. It was tiny, made of blue leather with gold on the edges of the pages. And something about holding it made the rest of her surroundings seem to blur around her.

She opened the book to find it wasn’t a book at all. It was a diary, scrawled in French with a delicately-tipped fountain pen.

_January 1, 1918_

_It is a new year, and I find myself wishing for childhood again; for a new beginning filled with hope instead of fear. My beloved France is no longer recognizable to me. The fields of wildflowers I roamed across as a child are but a wasteland now, barren and cold. Sometimes I can hear the shells in the distance. I hear them as I make my breakfast in the morning and when I braid my hair before bed. I tell myself it is only a shell, but I am no fool. It is also, inevitably, most of the time, the sound of a good man dying far too young. The countryside is—_

“You ready to close up?” Unkar called, and Rey jumped, stashing the diary into her bag before he could see it.

“Yeah,” Rey responded. “I’m leaving now.”

“You look a bit faint, to be honest,” Unkar said, going out the door without an offer to help. Merely an observation.

“I’m fine,” Rey said to herself, and at that she gathered her things and hurried home.

***

When Rey reached her townhouse, she put the kettle on and laid her bag down on the table. The diary was tucked into the outside pocket, and it was like she could feel it waiting for her.

She felt a little bit guilty about taking something from Unkar’s shop without permission, but not too guilty—he overpriced nearly everything, and besides, she could always return it when she finished reading.

Rey cautiously lifted the diary out of her bag, handling it like a sacred object—it certainly felt like one, lying open in her hands. It did, after all, contain the soul and secrets of someone long-forgotten, and she was about to bring them alive again, even if it was only to her.

She grabbed her mug of tea and cuddled up under a crocheted afghan to read under the lamplight, suddenly grateful for all of the French she took in high school and college.

_January 21, 1918_

_It’s terribly cold, and there’s been a thin layer of snow on the ground here in the countryside for what feels like an eternity. I would love to go into the city again soon, but traveling into Reims is far too dangerous right now. I have enough preserves from the autumn to keep myself for quite awhile. I am lucky, in a lot of ways, to only have one mouth to feed. I have been sitting inside and knitting, as there is not much else to do. I wonder if Mama and Papa were the kind who loved the snow, the quiet peace of it. It no longer brings me the kind of comfort it used to—I now only think of the soldiers shivering in the trenches, the homeless Belgians who now trek across the farmland, carrying their children. Even snow has been ruined for me._

_February 9, 1918_

_Had a dream about Mama and Papa last night. It was like the usual one where they left me in the cathedral, but this time they were watching through the window as I sat there, alone and desperately waiting for their return. If they are still alive, I wonder what they would think… if they knew how much that day still haunts everything I do._

Rey lifted her eyes from the page and realized she had stopped breathing. What a coincidence, she thought, her own memory of being abandoned so young suddenly brought to the forefront of her memory. She felt a sudden kinship with this woman, and her heart ached for her; she knew of those dreams, the empty longing that was dull and painful and went on forever and ever.

_February 21, 1918_

_You know, sometimes I feel like a traitor to my country, and a traitor to God, when I think about that cathedral. When news broke that the Germans had bombed it, I felt a perverse sort of satisfaction. The monument to my pain, blown to pieces. If only it were that easy._

_March 8, 1918_

_Enough of my wailing. This war and this endless winter have made me far too melancholy. I must think of happier things. I have so much in my quaint little farmhouse that others have not. I have warmth, food, comfort, peace…Although, sometimes when I used to see the soldiers laughing in town together I envied them, just a bit._

_March 16, 1918_

_The queerest thing happened to me today! It was raining, and I was inside reading Dante’s_ Divine Comedy. _When I went outside to fetch more firewood, the most darling little cat was curled up among the logs. It was malnourished and dirty beyond belief, and I simply had to help it. After giving it a bath, I discovered that she is a girl with orange and white fur. Once I fed her some food, I discovered that she has quite a bit of attitude as well. I have christened her Beatrice, because of my earlier reading material. The name means “to bring happiness,” after all, and I hope she will bring me the sense of joy that I so desperately need._

_April 2, 1918_

_It finally feels like Spring again, and I couldn’t be happier. I’ve been working outside all day, getting ready to begin planting. Bea waddles around my feet as I work, nudging her head against my leg and chasing bugs. We both always stop to look up at the airplanes passing overhead. I feel confident that I can distinguish which of the pilots are American—speeding dangerously through the sky without a care. Since they’ve joined in I feel like I’ve witnessed far more reckless maneuvers than I used to._

Rey closed the diary and placed it gently on the table, taking a few minutes to absorb what she’d read. This woman was a stranger from a hundred years ago, but Rey felt her presence in a way that overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes and let her head rest on the pillow, dreaming of green farmland and airplanes, orange kittens and cathedrals, and the unshakeable feeling that she’d seen it all before.

***

Rey groaned when she saw sunlight coming through the blinds. She had fallen asleep on the couch, and her bones ached and her head throbbed. She had to be at work in an hour. Just enough time to get ready and stop in at _Finn’_ s for a cup of coffee and breakfast to go.

It was a pretty Spring day, and Rey felt more conscious of her surroundings than usual. The tiny town she had made her home a few years back felt more quiet and peaceful than ever before. She used to complain about the neighbors arguing, the politically questionable bumper stickers, the ice cream man that never seemed to turn his music off—but today she was thankful. Beyond the town lay farmland in one direction and the city in the other. Men were not dying in trenches anywhere in walking distance.

She went to _Finn’s_ more for the company than the food. Finn Calrissian, the owner, and his wife Rose Tico were the only people she ever talked to in town. Rey had always kept to herself, avoiding the stares of the townspeople who still didn’t understand where she came from; but Finn and Rose had made sure Rey had friendly faces to see from the very beginning. However, since Rose had given birth to a baby boy in December, she usually only saw them when they were working.

Rey walked inside, the tiny bell hanging from the door ringing behind her. _Finn’s_ was a small coffeeshop, decorated with chalkboards and local art. It was the sort of place that could be confusing to tourists, who could be met with a pile of Rose’s chocolate soufflés on the counter one day and Finn making omelets to order the next. _Finn’_ s was the one area of Rey’s life that always held a small surprise, and she savored it.

“Peanut!” Finn said as she walked in, crushing her in a big hug. “It’s been nearly a week! How are you getting your caffeine?”

“She has a coffee machine at home, you dingus,” Rose joked from behind the counter with a wink.

Rey laughed. “She’s right. Just a quick coffee and a breakfast croissant to go, please.” She checked the time on her phone and sighed. “I’ve got to be at Unkar’s in three minutes.”

“On it!” Rose yelled, somehow balancing what looked like four plates on her arms.

Finn gave her a thumbs up and then turned back towards Rey with a look of concern. “Hey, look, I don’t want to get in your business or anything, _but,”_

“But what?”

Finn sighed. “Rose and I…we’re worried about you.”

“Me!?” Rey asked, incredulous. “I’m completely fine, Finn.”

“I know, I know,” he said. “But me and Rosie have been so busy with the new baby that we hardly get to see you anymore. We’re worried that…” he took a deep breath. “We’re worried that you’re lonely.”

Rey stood up straighter. “I’m not lonely, Finn. You know I’ve always gotten along just fine by myself.”

“Of course you can,” Finn said, giving her a friendly punch in the arm. “But it doesn’t mean you have to, okay?”

Rey smiled and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” she said.

“You’re too young and too awesome to be sitting around at home all day,” Finn said. “You should go find yourself a man.”

Rey laughed. “We live in the middle of nowhere, Finn. I’ve seen everyone here and I’m not interested. Handsome men don’t just fall out of the sky.”

Finn laughed as Rose handed her the coffee. “Never say never, peanut.”

***

“You’re five minutes late,” Unkar snapped. “ _Again._ Maybe it wouldn’t happen if you got your breakfast at home instead of from those freaks who run _Finn’s_.”

“Sorry, Unkar,” Rey said, rolling her eyes when he turned around. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

“There’s some furniture still outside that needs to be moved in,” Unkar said. “Big storm on the way. Then we have to do inventory.”

“Got it,” Rey said, walking outside and far away from her perpetually grumpy boss. It was a pretty day, and Rey enjoyed getting to work away from the confines of the shop.

After Rey had moved a number of desks, oil lamps, sewing cabinets, and end tables back inside, she was already exhausted. Unkar was out of sight, so Rey sat down behind the tree out back to rest for a bit before moving the rest. She took the diary out of her bag and began to read.

_April 17, 1918_

_Something about Spring always makes one feel like they’re standing on the precipice of something, doesn’t it? I can’t tell if that’s a feeling I should fear or not. Sometimes I dream that the earth is flat and I walk on and on; on water and on land, until I reach the edge—and then I lie down and stare into the depths of the universe below, watching the stars dance like fish in a pond. The dream always makes me sad, I think, because I am so alone in it. And then I wake up, always alone. But that is the way of things, isn’t it? And at least now I have Bea. She brought me a mouse this morning and a snake last week. I don’t know how to tell her that her presents are not to my taste._

_April 30, 1918_

_I think four years of war is quite enough. Perhaps a year to make it interesting, for the novelty of it, to remind everyone how fruitless all the killing is. And then we all get back to our lives. But this one just stretches on endlessly. They always tell us its nearly through and then it never is. I am getting tired. I am getting scared that it’s beginning to feel like normal. No…it does._

_May 9, 1918_

_Bea and I make a splendid little family, I think. It’s just her and I on these mornings, walking alone through the dust on the path to the barn. I talked her little orange ears off for an hour this morning about my plans for switching up the crops. She just stares up at me like perhaps I am very silly._

_May 21, 1918_

_The air is warm…too warm to be good. There’s a storm on its way, and a big one. I’m praying that the crops and the animals will be fine, and am keeping Bea in the house just in case. What happens to the men in the trenches when it rains? Do they fill up with water? Must they still sit, wet and cold and perhaps about to die any moment? It’s all too horrible to think about, and I feel guilty sitting here writing this next to the fire._

_May 22, 1918_

_A great deal happened today, but I hardly have time to write it all down now. I’ll find time tomorrow, I should think. Poe is probably already wondering where I am. I’ll explain who Poe is later._

“Rey!”

She jumped, shutting the diary and stuffing it in her bag as she saw Unkar come running across the yard. “There’s a customer who wants an Edwardian hand mirror. Do we have any around? I know there was that one we had up front a couple of months back but I think…”

Rey stood up and followed Unkar inside, the air heavy with the promise of thunder. He was still talking, but only one name echoed through her mind.

_Poe._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as two chapters but Chapter Two revealed itself to be a behemoth and now it's three chapters!

_May 23, 1918_

_I finally have a moment—breakfast is cooking on the stove and Poe is still fast asleep. Let me start from the beginning._

_Yesterday during the storm I heard it—I’ve heard plenty of horrifically loud noises over the past few years; but this one was particularly deafening, and it certainly wasn’t thunder. I brushed it off, figuring there was nothing I could do but stay inside out of the rain, far away from whatever it was._

_A few hours later, there was a knock on my door for the first time in months._

_I opened the door to find a man in an army uniform, soaked to the bone with rain and mud. Handsome, with tan skin and dark curls, stubble across his jaw. At first I almost didn’t believe he was real. It’s been so long since anyone’s been here. So long since I’ve let anyone in._

_“Mademoiselle,” he pleaded, out of breath, and I helped him through the door before he could even finish his sentence._

_He stumbled over towards the fire to warm up, and then hastily explained to me in decent but heavily-accented French that he was an American pilot. His plane had been shot down by one of the Germans, and he had managed to parachute out of it just in time, unharmed except for a sprained ankle. He then found himself alone in the middle of the French countryside in a thunderstorm, and had limped on for hours until he saw the light coming from my window._

_“I’m Poe,” he said, smiling warmly and extending his hand to me. “Lieutenant Poe Dameron.”_

_I don’t know why I let him in. I’m a woman living alone, miles away from anyone else, and I welcomed a strange man into my home without a second thought. I could have at least insisted he sleep in the barn._

_But his eyes. His eyes were so…kind. Like an old friend you haven’t seen in years._

_I found some clean clothes for him to wear (mine, and very small on him) and some water so he could wash up. I said I would give him his privacy, so I went into my bedroom as he washed up._

_He called me back in twenty minutes later. I found him sitting next to the fire, Bea curled up in his lap. My big winter sweater and work slacks looked silly on him, but he seemed relieved to be safe and warm at last._

_“Mademoiselle,” he said, looking up at me. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness.”_

_“Of course,” I replied. “Can I take a look at your ankle?”_

_The lieutenant nodded, and I sat down next to him to examine his foot. It was extremely swollen, as he had landed on it quite roughly when he parachuted down. He winced as I touched it, wrapping a cold cloth around it and elevating it on a pillow. Then I fetched him some bread, cheese, milk, and an apple, which he ate quickly._

_“You live here all alone, mademoiselle?” he asked. “Do you have a husband? Parents to care for?”_

_“It’s just me, sir,” I said. “Well, me and Bea.”_

_The lieutenant picked Bea up and snuggled her to his chest. “She’s a wonderful cat.”_

_“I think she likes you,” I said, and he seemed pleased._

_“I have a cat back home,” he said. “I miss him all the time.”_

_“And where’s home?”_

_“Brooklyn,” he said. “New York.”_

_“And how do you know French?”_

_“I grew up next door to my buddy Snap, and his family spoke it—I spent a lot of time over there as a kid and picked up a lot.”_

_I had laughed then, because his French truly was awful. “And what does Snap think of your French?”_

_His eyes darkened. “Well, he doesn’t think much about anything anymore.”_

_“Oh,” I said. “My apologies, sir.”_

_“It’s okay,” he said, shaking his head. “You couldn’t have known.”_

_After that it got quiet, so I made a makeshift bed out of some blankets on the floor near the fireplace. The poor man looked exhausted, and I’ve never seen anyone so eager to go to bed._

_“Thank you again, mademoiselle,” he said, looking at me kindly. “You’re a kind woman to help a poor stranger like myself.”_

_I nodded at him and smiled as I made my way to my bed in the loft upstairs. It was strange going to bed knowing there was a man sleeping downstairs. I don’t know how I feel about it yet._

_Anyway, breakfast must be about finished by now, and Lieutenant Dameron should be up. I’m sorry for writing so much—but this is the first interesting thing that’s happened to me in ages._

_May 23, 1918_

_It is just before bed, so time for a brief update._

_I gave Lieutenant Dameron his breakfast, and then told him I had to go out and work, and he could do what he liked. He wanted to be of some help despite not being able to walk, and so I let him have a try at repairing some of the old tools. He did a splendid job with them._

_During supper, Lieutenant Dameron told me more about himself. Some bits of his stories were difficult to understand because his French is so rough. He is quite insistent that I call him Poe. He is thirty-two and a pilot. He joined the war just to fly, but things have changed—he is no longer a fresh-faced young man ready to get behind the controls of an airplane. He’s lost people—including his friend Snap, who was like a brother to him. The Americans are new to this war, but they already seem as exhausted as we are._

_He is very funny, this Lieutenant Poe Dameron. He is being very kind and charming towards me—I suppose because he feels guilty about imposing. He told me some funny stories about the practical jokes he got up to as a kid. He told me about his father, who is kind and strong and sends him letters every week, and his mother, a beautiful woman who is dead but still very much alive to everyone who knew her._

_There is something comforting about going to bed and knowing someone else is asleep downstairs. That if something happens, there’s someone to tell. Perhaps I never realized how much I’ve been missing it._

_May 27, 1918_

_I am teaching Poe to improve his French, and he is teaching me some more English. He is far better at French than I ever will be with English—I say English is a ridiculous language designed to be a torture implement, and he says the same about French. We do a fine job of meeting in the middle, I think._

_Poe’s ankle is recovering and he’s still helping me out around the farm. I haven’t asked him yet if he should be finding a way back, or at least sending word—you would think if they saw his plane go down they would assume he was dead. I am afraid to ask._

_I’m writing this upstairs in bed again, and I can hear Poe singing to Bea. He likes to hold her like a baby and sing American popular music to lull her to sleep. For someone who has seen so much horror, he is a very silly man!_

_May 28, 1918_

_I keep getting twisted up in these eerie dreams again. I see everything spinning and changing around me—my skin and hair and surroundings flashing by me over and over in cycles of light and color. The earth turns, and I turn with it. I’ve had this dream before, and it’s always been the same._

_Last night it was different. At the moment where I usually feel too dizzy to breathe, things slowed down. They stopped. Someone else was there, spinning too. Holding my hand._

Rey jumped at a sudden crash of lightening from outside, nearly dropping the diary out of her hands. She checked the tv and found it blaring warnings at her, the weatherman on screen pleading with everyone to stay inside and off the roads.

She sat back down on the couch and got comfortable. Wouldn’t be a problem. It was the weekend and she had nowhere to go this evening. Besides, she had a new one-hundred year old friend to keep her company, and now things were beginning to get more interesting than just farm work. A handsome soldier had appeared, and Rey already had a good feeling about him.

_May 30, 1918_

_Today was horrifying._

_I woke up to a terrible cracking noise and a scream. I ran outside and found Poe lying on the ground, wailing in pain. It was horrible._

_“What happened?”_

_“I just broke my leg,” he gasped, wincing in pain. “I saw a car. Army vehicle. They’re coming.”_

_“The Germans?”_

_“No. Ours.” he said._

_“Well that’s good, isn’t it? Then they can—”_

_Poe looked at me, terror in his eyes. “No, listen, I—I need you to pretend that my leg has been broken for the past week. Can you do that?” He looked up at the roof of the barn, and I suddenly understood. I recoiled in horror._

_“No…” I said. “Please tell me you didn’t.”_

_“Please,” he said, grasping onto my hand. He was in enormous pain and on the verge of tears. “Please just do this one thing for me. I won’t ask for anything again, ever.”_

_“They’ll kill you if they find out.”_

_“I know, mademoiselle,” he said. “I know what I’ve done.”_

_I dragged Poe into the house and managed to get him propped up back in bed. I examined his leg and sure enough, he had reached his objective. It was very badly broken._

_“Talk to me,” I said, pouring him a glass of brandy to ease the pain and his nerves. “I need to understand.”_

_“When they’re gone,” he said. “I must keep my composure first.”_

_Twenty minutes later, the army vehicle pulled up. Two officers emerged from the car, one British and one French. I told them that I had Lieutenant Dameron, and that his leg had been broken when he parachuted out of his falling plane a week ago. They were thrilled at this news._

_“Dameron!” the British one exclaimed as he walked through the door to find Poe still lying down next to the fire. “I can’t believe you’re alive!”_

_“Neither can I, sir,” Poe said. He had a charming smile on his face, but I could sense a lump in his throat, fear threatening to break down his friendliness at any minute._

_“So a broken leg, eh?” he said. “You’re lucky this pretty young French miss has been taking such good care of you. Are you sure it’s broken?”_

_“Yes, sir,” I told him. “I have training as a nurse. I examined him. It’s badly broken, but he’s going to be fine.”_

_“Guess you’ll be in the hospital for a while, eh Dameron?” The officer said. “Pity seeing one of the best pilots we got on the ground.”_

_“There’s no room in the hospital sir,” the French officer said. “We’ll have to make other accommodations. For a pilot as celebrated as Lieutenant Dameron, my family is happy to offer up our own—”_

_“He can stay here,” I said._

_“We appreciate your kindness, miss,” the French officer said. “But I’m sure the lieutenant would much prefer to—”_

_“I’m staying here,” Poe said. “I’m quite comfortable and I’d rather not travel.”_

_“If that’s really what you’d prefer, lieutenant,” he said. “And if this woman has nursing training, I suppose its fine. Are you sure?”_

_“Very,” Poe said. They gave mean address so we could send them updates on his recovery. And then they left._

_“We have to get you to a doctor,” I said the second I heard the car speed away. “I don’t actually have any nursing training. We need someone to look at your leg.”_

_Poe groaned the second the men left, silent tears running down his cheeks. He was relieved, but still clearly terrified. I told him I would walk to the neighbors, borrow their horse, and ride into Reims to find Dr. Ackbar._

_The trip took the good part of the afternoon. I returned with Dr. Ackbar, and he set Poe’s leg and wrapped it—there was some screaming that was hard to bear. He left some crutches to help him walk. I returned Dr. Ackbar to Reims. He’s a good man, and did not ask too many questions._

_I know Poe promised to explain, but he didn’t look ready to talk. I made dinner and he fell asleep with Bea curled up in his lap._

_June 2, 1918_

_Poe feels incredibly guilty for imposing, for showing up here a stranger and now a patient who needs constant care…and now for not telling me his reasons. He really has no idea how desperately I needed the company. I do not mind at all. Still, he feels he needs to make it up to me. He wants to help, although there’s not much farm work for him to do with his leg healing. I need a new sweater for next winter, so I’m teaching him how to knit. He’s picking it up rather quickly, but still needs some practice. I think I will have the ugliest and yet most agonized over sweater in all of France._

_He has such a haunted look to him, sometimes. It makes my heart ache. Still no conversation about the leg._

_June 3, 1918_

_Very pleasant weather today. Poe got outside with his crutches and we sat outside the farmhouse with my old recital books from school. We recited some comedy plays together and had great fun._

_Still no conversation about the leg._

_June 4, 1918_

_Poe woke up screaming in the early hours of the morning. A nightmare._

_I made him some tea and got him to breathe normally again. I held his hand._

_“I owe you an explanation, mademoiselle,” he said. “But I don’t think you will think too highly of me afterwards.”_

_“I’m a forgiving woman,” I said. “The army is not. They’ll have you shot for cowardice.”_

_“I know.”_

_“So why?”_

_Poe’s eyes were red, and tired, and he looked decades older than he was in that moment. “I’d rather die than kill again. I’ve shot down a lot of German planes. So many. Too many…”_

_I held his hand. He was trembling._

_“When Snap died I swore I’d find the bastard who did it and kill him. But I realized…I’m no better than him. I’ve shot down so many people. They were all Snaps to somebody. Someone’s husband or father or son or best friend. And I just shot them out of the sky. Why? Because someone told me to? Because someone told me I was protecting my people and my country? I’m in France. My father is in Brooklyn. This has nothing to do with my family.”_

_Poe shook, on the verge of tears again._

_“We’re just people. I’m just a man trying to live a happy life, and so were all those men I shot down without thinking. This war….it has nothing to do with us….nothing. Those German men just wanted to go home, start a career, marry their sweetheart—and now they’re just gone. Wasted. If I shot down one more plane I don’t think I could live with myself. I can barely live with myself now. I can’t even mourn Snap because…because I don’t deserve to. I took people away too. I destroyed so many lives.”_

_I took Poe in my arms and rocked him back and forth, and he sobbed._

_“You must think I’m a coward. A traitor.”_

_“No,” I told him, wiping a tear from his cheek. “I think you’re wonderfully ahead of your time.”_

_June 5, 1918_

_Poe is still quite shaken up. I don’t know how to help him. Whatever is stirring inside his soul will not be as easy to fix as a broken leg._

_June 7, 1918_

_News came in about the third battle of the Aisne. Very heavy losses on both sides._

_I decided Poe needed a treat, so with dinner yesterday evening I got out the bottle of wine that I got in town last year. We split it and got rather tipsy._

_Poe seemed lighter with the drink in him, which was a relief after all the agony he’s been in. We laughed at all sorts of silly things and he said all sorts of nonsense. At one point, he told me I was pretty and that he was afraid of falling in love with me. Drink really does make people ridiculous, no?_

_Today I am nursing the worst headache._

_June 10, 1918_

_Poe is already very good at knitting because he has nothing better to do. I think it relaxes him, as well. The repetition of the stitches seems to lull him into a state of calm._

_I didn’t know just how good he was until he told me he had a surprise for me. He had me close my eyes, and when I opened them, there was Bea wearing the most ridiculous tiny knit dress with a matching bonnet. It was the funniest thing. Poe was very proud of himself, and Bea was very eager to shed her new frock and never see it again!_

_June 13, 1918_

_I always thought I would never be married because I wouldn’t like it. I’m not so sure anymore. I like having a man around. He is very kind and helpful to me, and despite being so sad he always is trying to make me happy. If I knew the man I married was going to be like Lieutenant Dameron perhaps I would reconsider._

_June 20, 1918_

_Have not written in a while as there is so much farm work. I wake up at dawn and come in at sundown every day completely worn out. Poe is helping by making the food and doing small chores around the house—it takes him a very long time because of the crutches, but he says he’d rather struggle to be of help than be in bed all day._

_When I come inside at the day’s end Poe is waiting for me by the table, propped up on his crutches as he cooks supper. Today there were daisies and violets on the table that he picked from behind the barn. It is so nice to have someone to come home to and to be taken care of. I tell him how the crops are doing, the town gossip I heard from a man traveling through, a bird’s nest I saw in the grass. He is delighted by the minutiae of my life—and all of a sudden, I am too._

_June 23, 1918_

_Rode into Reims today to pick some things up. I got a razor for Poe. I didn’t have one around so he’s sprouted quite the beard these past few weeks. I think he looks very handsome either way, but I’ll let him choose for himself._

_I splurged a lot today—something about having another person here, I think. I bought pork and sugar and more yarn for Poe’s new knitting habit. When I see people in town and they ask me how I am, I do not tell them about him…I do not ask them to visit._

_I also bought some perfume…the one that smells like roses that I’ve always admired in the store. It seems like too much of a luxury for wartime, but I bought it._

_We had the pork for dinner and I used the sugar and blackberries from the garden to make little cakes for dessert. We’re feeling very spoiled. Poe shaved his beard—he’s got such a handsome smile that it’s hard to look him in the face, sometimes._

_When Poe leaned over me to reach his fork I think he smelled the perfume—it seemed to please him. I think I’ll keep wearing it._

_June 27, 1918_

_Cleaned through the house today. Explained about how Mama and Papa left when I was young—how I wished I had a photograph of them to look at. How I wished I had answers. I don’t think he realized until now how completely alone I am. It made him sad._

_He tells me he’ll share. He says his father would love me, and that they would show me everything in Brooklyn, from the baseball field to his favorite restaurant. He’s joking, of course, but his face has such a glow to it when he speaks about it. I think if I happened to be in Brooklyn, one day after this is all over, he wouldn’t mind showing me around._

_There is about another month until Poe’s leg is healed. What then? We’ll have to write the officers who visited. He’ll have to go back, or run again. He must be thinking about it._

_June 30, 1918_

_Turns out I do have family after all. Dead family, anyway. A letter came this morning saying my uncle had died—a brother of my mother’s apparently, and I am to receive his inheritance. His lawyer is to send me more details shortly. He’s not very well-to-do, just lived in a quaint farmhouse like mine, to the south of here. A little money will come in then. Things will be a little more comfortable, and I should feel blessed._

_I don’t. All I can think is that this man knew of my existence and never came to visit me during his lifetime. I could have had family, and now I’ll never know._

_I told Poe, and he could tell I was upset. Came in from working outside to find a bouquet of wildflowers on the kitchen table._

_July 4, 1918_

_It is Independence Day in America, so Poe is missing home. He told me about an apple pie his mother used to make every year. We picked apples and tried our best to replicate it. I think it turned out well. We sat outside in the evening and enjoyed the pie, Bea chasing fireflies around our feet. I was so full and so tired that I found myself leaning into Poe’s arms, and then I let myself fall completely. He wasn’t bothered at all. He was strong and warm and felt wonderful. I never wanted to leave._

_When I went to bed tonight I cried silently in my room. It took me awhile to figure out why._

_No one has held me since I was a little girl._

_July 6, 1918_

_It rained so we both stayed inside. Poe finished another outfit for Bea and this one is even more ridiculous than the last. It looks like an outfit Napoleon would wear, with a coat with buttons and a little hat with a feathered plume he took from the henhouse. I laughed so hard I cried. It must have taken him hours. He must only make the clothes to make me laugh, as Bea is miserable in them and is always trying to get them off._

_A bad chill was coming in from the rain, so Poe and I spent the evening wrapped up in quilts next to the fire, reading poetry to one another. He has a lovely voice, even if his French pronunciation is terrible._

_Just a few minutes ago, Poe peeked into the loft and asked me what I was writing—and I told him that I keep a diary._

_“I don’t quite understand diaries,” he said. “Who are they written for?”_

_“Well for yourself, of course.”_

_“I know,” Poe said. “But where do they go then?_

_“I don’t know,” I said. “I never really thought about it.”_

_“A hundred years from now someone could be looking at the inside of your soul, unless you burn it first, but nobody ever does. Are you okay with that?”_

_I smiled, feeling over the pages in my hand. “You just have to trust that your words will go where they’re needed.”_

_“For a practical woman, you’re very romantic sometimes, you know?”_

Rey sat up, feeling (perhaps imagining?) that she felt a sort of jolt pass through her fingers from the book in her hands. She put it down on the coffee table for a minute, processing what she’d read.

This woman’s words…she had trusted that they would end up in the right place, at the right time, and here they were. With Rey, in the twenty-first century, an ocean away from France.

Another woman who was very much alone.

She had the sense that she was being watched. Not in a malevolent way, but a protective one. As if she had guardian angels watching her, lovingly waiting somewhere for her life to unfold, for her to walk down certain paths.

The storm continued to rage outside, the rain pounding against the roof and the wind rattling the windows. She was glad she had moved all of the furniture inside at Unkar’s yesterday, or it would have surely been ruined. This was the kind of storm that brought down trees and left the streets plastered with leaves, and she pitied anyone who had to be outside in it. She curled up on the couch and started reading again, rooting for romance to bloom between the diary’s author and the handsome Lieutenant Poe Dameron.

_July 10, 1918_

_It was a cool, clear night tonight and the stars were brighter than ever. Poe and I sat outside in the grass again, just talking. This time he wrapped his arms around me, and I fell into them gladly. We were quiet for a long time, just listening to the crickets and frogs sing out in the night._

_“I miss being up there,” Poe said, looking up at the sky. “When you’re flying, anything seems possible. Sometimes I would dream about not stopping—about flying all the way across the ocean to New York, to surprise my dad. Not that the plane could make a trip like that, of course, but sometimes…sometimes it felt like I could fly there on sheer willpower and homesickness alone.”_

_“It must feel wonderful.”_

_“It does. There’s nothing like it. Sometimes I would dream about turning the nose of the plane upwards and just flying all the way to the stars. Maneuvering my plane around the moon. I think I belong more to the stars than to anything on the ground. I’d give anything to fly all the way up there.”_

_“Maybe somewhere you are,” I said._

_Poe smiled and pulled me in closer. “And maybe there you rescue me too.”_

_July 11, 1918_

_Came in from working today to find Poe had tried to replicate the little cakes with berries I had made earlier. They tasted disgusting, but looked very pretty, the berries arranged like little flowers on top. I love coming inside at the end of the day to see Poe has surprised me with something. He’s a very good housewife! I’ve never had somebody try so hard to make me happy._

_I always feel pangs of separation when I go up to the loft to sleep and leave him in his makeshift bed downstairs. Especially when I can sense we’re both awake, staring up at our separate ceilings, dreaming…_

_Sometimes I think I…never mind._


	3. Chapter 3

_July 13, 1918_

_Dreamt last night of a house filled with many things. Furniture stacked on top of more furniture; old books and toys and knick-knacks. A thunderstorm. I felt a sort of stretched out longing afterwards that lingered on through the morning. I cannot tell you why._

Rey felt her heart speed up and her breath catch in her throat.

A coincidence. Surely.

_July 14, 1918_

_Poe’s leg is nearly recovered. He is walking without the crutches, but leans heavily on one leg to avoid stress on the other. We took a walk around the gardens and he held onto my arm for support. When was the last time either of us spoke to a soul beside ourselves? It is so easy, when his hand brushes against mine on these morning strolls, to forget that there is more out there than just us—there is a whole world that keeps spinning—oblivious to Poe’s healing, to what we’re making for dinner tonight, to the way Poe’s eyes crinkle when he laughs._

_Soon we will have to write the officers. Neither of us are ready to bring it up._

_I’m not ready for him to leave._

_July 15, 1918_

_There was a full moon tonight, so Poe and I sat outside after we finished our dinner, trading stories. He told me I looked lovely under the moonlight and ran a hand through my hair, bringing it down around my shoulders. He leaned in and kissed me. I kissed him back. No one’s ever kissed me before, and it felt so wonderful and warm and intoxicating that I didn’t know how to stop._

_I feel giddy. I feel terrified._

_I feel like I’ll die if he ever leaves me._

_July 16, 1918_

_I was about to set out for work in the fields this morning but Poe and I didn’t want to leave each other. He brought a pillow and sat down on the grass near me while I worked. I kissed him again. And again…and again…_

_I think we are sweethearts now. No one’s said it in words. But he looks at me sometimes and I know that whatever is happening between us can’t be described in words. Words would belittle it._

_July 17, 1918_

_Did you know there’s a war on? Very close to here. Death and destruction and the downfall of nations. I’ve nearly forgotten about it._

_War is such complex darkness. But the way Poe smiles when he makes us coffee in the morning is so simple, so good, that I think his light could vanquish anything._

_July 18, 1918_

_I missed Poe so much when I went to bed last night that I came downstairs and slept in his bed. We held each other and fell asleep, with Bea curled up in a little orange ball at the end of the bed. It was probably improper of me to sleep in his bed, but otherwise nothing happened. What is propriety to us, anyways? It can only exist in the presence of others, and it is just him and I, this world of our own, this warm bed, this love…_

_July 19, 1918_

_A visitor came today. The lawyer who is managing my deceased uncle’s estate. He was very nice to us and we had him in for supper. He assumed Poe was my husband. I think we were both a bit pleased with the idea and didn’t bother to correct him. If we did there would have been questions._

_I now have another farmhouse, to the south of here. Very similar to this one. I can get some money if I sell it. I suppose I have some decisions to make._

_July 21, 1918_

_Went into Reims today for more shopping. People are saying the army will be around town soon, which means it’s likely they’ll come in soon to check on Poe._

_I came home and had to tell him. I had to ask him what his plan is. He was very silent for a long while._

_That night in bed he turned to me, his eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I have to run.”_

_“Well then,” I said, taking his hand. “I’m running with you.”_

_July 22, 1918_

_We are making preparations to leave today. At least for a while. Reims is too close to the war, to the action and the officers. The town where my uncle’s farmhouse is, however, is secluded enough that no one should be able to find us._

_I am leaving my crops, my animals (except for darling Bea), and everything I’ve spent every day working on. Forsaking it in a second. Three months ago I could have never dreamt of doing such a thing._

_We’re packing everything in the wagon today. It should take all of tomorrow to get there._

_I’m not leaving home. He’s the only thing that’s ever felt like home to me, and I’ll run with him forever if I have to._

_July 23, 1918_

_We are on the road. The weather is hot and the roads are dusty. We drive past horror after horror. Buildings destroyed and knocked over, refugees fleeing, devastation and quiet. It’s the worst closest to home. As we drive further south, there’s less destruction._

_Poe is driving the wagon, Bea sitting in his lap with her little knit Napoleon hat on—ever the adventurous kitten._

_“This town we’re going to,” Poe asks, staring ahead at the road. “What did the lawyer say it was called?”_

_“Damerey,” I said. “It’s called Damerey.”_

_July 24, 1918_

_We arrived in Damerey late last night and fell asleep the second we got inside the farmhouse. We barely even looked around first._

_This morning we examined our new house. It’s bigger than the old one. There’s lots of big windows and flowers and ivy growing wild everywhere. I’m quite in love with it. The inside of the house is a mess, but it’s nothing that some cleaning can’t fix. There is a horse, two cows, three pigs, and some chickens. The crops are already planted and in good condition, and should be ready to harvest in the autumn. Bea is already working on the mice situation in the house._

_I think I’m going to sell my old farmhouse. I think I’m going to live here in Damerey. With Poe. For as long as he’ll have me._

_July 30, 1918_

_Haven’t written in ages. Sorry about that. Things are so busy. We are already planning for the harvest season and have been getting to know the town. Damerey is small, but the people here are wonderful and kind. We’ve cleaned out the house and I’m sewing new curtains for the windows. We have a bedroom next to an apple tree. There’s a little box for Bea to sleep in the corner._

_This home is ours, and it’s brilliant._

_We see injured soldiers walking through town sometimes, and Poe grows very silent. The guilt of running from the army is gnawing at him, and in these moments I don’t know what to say. Poe says the guilt of killing another man would wound him more though, so with that we move on._

_Poe’s leg is completely better. He’s walking on it now and is very pleased to be able to work again. He’s teaching me some dances he knows from America. He’s a good dancer and wants to take me to one of the dances in town._

_August 9, 1918_

_Poe and I took a walk after dinner. There was something different in his eyes—something tender and hopeful. He hardly looked away from me._

_When we got to the garden by the apple tree he took my hand and knelt down, looking up at me adoringly._

_He asked me to be his wife._

_August 10, 1918_

_There was something wonderfully new about today._

_It was the same as any other day, but I’m a different woman now. A stronger one._

_I churn butter as the future Mrs. Dameron. I pick vegetables from the garden as the future Mrs. Dameron. I go collect eggs from the henhouse with the knowledge that I will never be lonely again. I can no longer say that no one has ever loved me._

_August 14, 1918_

_Poe has written to his father asking him to come and stay with us at the farm. He thinks he’s tiring of Brooklyn and will enjoy the country. We will be married at the church in town once he gets here._

_Poe was smiling the entire time he was writing. “Dad’s not gonna believe I got a girl as wonderful as you, sunshine,” he said, spinning me around. He says his father is going to love me like his own daughter and that we’ll get along splendidly. We’re going to be a family._

_A family. Of my very own. Not people staying because they’re obligated—but because they love me and they choose to._

_August 20, 1918_

_Poe and I spend many nights now lying under the stars dreaming about the wedding—it’s only going to be us and his father, after all, so I don’t know why we’re making such a fuss, but we are anyway. Poe is rather smitten with the idea of me as a bride. We’re dreaming about white satin dresses and lace veils and bouquets—nothing we can afford or find during wartime. I’ll wear my white cotton dress and Poe will pick me flowers from the garden—and I will be the happiest woman on this earth._

_When we are lying down on the grass next to the farmhouse it feels so easy, and so right, and I will follow him to the ends of the earth, to the stars if he dares to—anywhere. Sometimes when he’s holding my hand I wonder what would have happened if his plane had gone down just a few miles away, if he had not arrived drenched at my door, if I had not allowed him inside where he would slowly and entirely capture my affections._

_What accidents of the universe brought us together? Are they accidents? An act of God? Destiny? Fate? A line in the great human story we can never see all at once? I think I know him sometimes…like I’ve known him always; even before he knocked on my door I somehow knew I was waiting for him to show. I love him in a way that extends beyond the laws of everything._

_It is him and me forever, and I think forever is longer and wider than I will ever know…_

Rey turned the page. The next page was filled with calculations for farm supplies, doodled in pencil. There was nothing else.

“No! Come on!”

She groaned as she put the diary down. What happened next? Did Poe’s father come from Brooklyn? Were they married for the rest of their lives? Did they have children, grandchildren, more kittens? She tried a few Google searches but came up empty. She supposed she would never know.

Rey sank farther into the couch, her eyes and brain tired from squinting at the tiny, faded cursive and translating the French. She put a pillow over her eyes and relaxed for a few minutes, playing over the images in her mind. She could see it all perfectly in her head—the farmhouses, the tiny orange kitten, the berry cakes…but she couldn’t see Poe. He wasn’t so much a face as much as a feeling. Their story felt like home. It felt like family.

Rey wrapped her blanket tight around herself, feeling drowsy as the sound of rain lulled her to sleep. She was alone. But she’d be fine. She’d be okay. She’d just—

_*Bzzt*_

Rey jumped to attention at the sound of the doorbell and looked over at the clock. It was almost two in the morning. Who the hell needed her at this hour?

She groaned and stretched as she lumbered to the door, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. When she opened it she had to jump back to avoid the rain blowing in.

It was a man.

“Hi,” he said, shuddering nervously in the cold. “Look, I’m so sorry to intrude, and I mean, you don’t have to let me in or help or anything, but I was on my…”

Rey hardly heard what he was saying. He was about her height, a little older, with tan skin and a tumble of black curls. Stubble and a brown leather jacket. Kind eyes. The kindest eyes she’d ever seen.

“…anyway, so my car completely breaks down, right over there, and it’s two in the morning, I’m stuck without a cell phone or my wallet, and I have no idea where I am. So I guess what I’m trying to say, if you’d be so kind, is…could I at least use your phone? Or tell me where the hell I am? I know it’s—”

“Come in,” she said automatically, still caught up in his eyes.

The man stepped through the door, catching his breath as Rey passed him a towel to dry off with. Out of the chaos of the storm, he looked at her closely for the first time.

“Have I met you before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Sorry, I just…” he looked into Rey’s eyes for a second longer, as if he was trying to place something. “I just—”

“I’ll get you some tea to warm up,” she said, breaking the silence.

“That would be great. I can’t thank you enough, really.”

Something about his voice soothed her, warming her heart like an old song on a vinyl record. Rey went over to the kitchen and started to heat the kettle, wondering what exactly to do next. She hadn’t had people over since…since when? Since before Finn and Rose had their baby?

The man walked into the kitchen to stand next to her. He smiled warmly and extended his hand.

“By the way, I forgot to mention—I’m Poe.”

She stared at him open-mouthed for a moment, unable to resist breaking into a grin. She took his hand, smiling up at him. “You won’t believe this but…”

“But what?” he asked.

 _I know,_ Rey thought as she stared up at him with a racing heart; deciding it was too early to mention. _You won’t believe this, but I absolutely, completely know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Damerey is a real place in France! https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Damerey (and I couldn't resist) ;)


End file.
